the First is First
by dandelion-heart
Summary: The post-it note read: "IMPORTANT! references to Takeshi's books! DO NOT THROW AWAY!"


the **First** is **First**

* * *

[from a national newspaper]

"**Hiding Rubies" awarded, author honored**

…Aizawa received the award with a small speech thanking his parents and wife for supporting his writing endeavors.

Though it is his first novel, Aizawa's "Hiding Rubies," a story about a girl who learns that her fiancé has died and she has become immortal, was received with overwhelmingly positive responses around the country. Critics and readers alike have praised it as a new generation style of novel and as "one of the most profound love stories ever written…"

* * *

[from a high school newspaper]

"**Hiding Rubies" author releases another best-seller**

…Teachers have also decided to make it mandatory reading for next year's summer reading assignment.

"Breathing Underwater," Takeshi Aizawa's second novel, topped the best-seller list a day after it was available in bookstores everywhere. Unlike "Hiding Rubies," Aizawa's first book, "Breathing Underwater" is narrated from a high school boy's perspective as he grows up with his neighbor's daughter from preschool to middle school until she moves away. The girl, Yoko, rejects Hiyo when he confesses he likes her before she moves but she promises that she will come back to teach him how to breathe underwater one day. The boy soon forgets about her and is in his last year of high school when Yoko returns but ignores him. How he learns why she rejected him and what she meant by "breathing underwater," is the focus of the story…

* * *

[from an online blog]

…**WTH?**

…so when I read hiding rubies, I was thinking to myself, how the heck can this guy write so well? its his first book too, so I decided to try and read his other book called breathing underwater, and I loved it too. but I don't get why its all sad, both books end terribly rubies ends with the girl stil alive forever and promising to protect her guy's family. And ok, that makes sense but breathing underater nearly made me cry! I was so sad when she tells Hiyo that she didn't want to love him because shes schizophrenic and she was planning to drown herself before he saved her…and the ending wasnt even clear! I mean, she says no when he keeps asking her I wanna be with you and then she just leaves! XPPP

so I was really hoping that the new one heartshaped buttons would be somewhat better…

and it wasn't O.O

oh my frikken god, I cried sooo much I don't want to ever read that book again. he writes the best love stories but hes always gonna make them sad I think

anyways heart shaped buttons is about two brothers who are really good friends and its really cute how they interact with each other ^^ but the older brother has to leave so when he does he tells the girl (that his little bro likes) to go out with the little bro…but that girl likes the older one! and of course the younger bro DIES, the older one goes emo pretty much and the girl is really confused

and yea it was so terrifically awesome, I was ok even when the lil bro died because it got even better but then at the end? The older bro falls in love with the girl AND SHE LEAVES BECUZ SHE THINKS HE DOES ONLY TO REMIND HIMSELF OF HIS BRO

yea. I should have known it wasn't gonna be happy but its kind of odd…

* * *

[from a literary magazine]

**Aizawa to publish autobiography after upcoming novel**

…The author, commonly known as the king of modern Japanese literature, told impatient fans at a book-signing that his newest book will only focus on realism. Similarly, his autobiography will be detailed and honest, with no room for his trademark imaginative plotlines…

* * *

[from an editorial publication]

**King of literature or tragedy?**

…Hiding Rubies. Breathing Underwater. Heart-shaped Buttons.

For the youth of Japan, these books have become the classics of today, their intricate plots an accurate representation of human emotions. On the other hand, critics, for all their glowing words, denounce the tragedy in every book. As is commonly known, none of Takeshi Aizawa's bestsellers end happily despite the relative normalcy in the characters' lives. "Hiding Rubies" did not reward the gentle heroine with a lifespan and instead turned her into a guardian of an endangered family. "Breathing Underwater's" heroine walked away from the desperate hero but Aizawa refuses to tell if she did turn around when she stopped walking away. And "Heart-shaped Buttons," infamous for its troubled protagonists, ended with us readers wondering, why _did_ Himura love her?

Perhaps the point for each of these stories does not lie in the ending. "We were Us" has arguably the most emotional climax, and yet the most satisfying build-up. The real magic of Takeshi Aizawa's works rests in the middle of the book, when he has created the background and finally let the characters run free. The love stories, all painfully fragile, do not provide the interest; the characters do. "We were Us" is narrated from first person by Iko, the delightfully pessimistic teenage girl who lets herself become friends and fall in love with an orphaned delinquent, Shigeru. His impression of Iko is left to us and we are left wondering what he felt for the spontaneous Iko. By the end, we have become so immersed in the way they find each other necessary company that it is their personalities, not their friendship and budding romance, that makes Iko's death so difficult to accept.

Death and love are the trademarks of Takeshi Aizawa's stories; there are no such things are fairytales, happy endings, or miracles…

* * *

[from an entertainment magazine]

_Acclaimed author Takeshi Aizawa's newest release "the First is First" will be available in bookstores nationwide by September 4__th__ which marks the end of his tour around Japan. The book is an autobiography and centers around the importance of childhood memories for the development of an adult. Though it is a departure from his trademark realistic fiction novels, the book is already in high demand from online pre-ordering sites. The text below is an exclusive excerpt from the first chapter of the book._

Writing was never hard for me because it was so simple. You wrote certain words down and made sure they made sense. For extra impact, you had to say them out loud so that they flowed and just to check, you made sure everything fit, the words and punctuation and meaning. Writing was never a task though; I liked it too much to make it one. I think I only ever thought of it as a duty once, and that was when I had to report my goal in life. I was scared by thinking of the future so I wrote down words, saw that they fit and gave it in. I lied of course - building roads was a game, not something I wanted to do. But writing never seemed appealing as a job and young as I was, money was something necessary.

My parents were the ones who made writing such fun. They raised me on fables and myths and when I outgrew those, I learned to love history and non-fiction. The complete turn-about faded in time, and my diet was filled with reading of any sort. In that way, either directly inspired or just curious to try my own style, I wrote and impressed.

At least my mother was; she saw something golden in every piece and read it carefully right before I took it away again. Her advice was blunt and soft, and every time I heard it, I grew stronger in confidence so when she finally gained the courage to point out what she didn't like, I was ready.

My father, on the other hand, never said a word of critique. He didn't understand writing as much as my mother did I'm sure; he is more of a man who tries to live walking, not sitting. My mother did plenty of walking but she sits a lot too, looking at the world with lenses I wished for, a perspective that slowed down motion and furrowed her brows as she read my work, intent on finding the heart of every word.

So when I was with my father, rather than showing him something to read that he would smile at in place of talk about, I just talked. My father is still the best company I could ever have, telling me news from countries I have forgotten about and scientific observations his career has nothing to do with but his constant email alerts report. His voice can be loud but he's reserved and quiet, manners apparent even in his typical smile, even as he easily talks to any woman he meets. He is curious and intense and watchful and I mimic him still, trying to see the speed at which his eyes move over the world, a sharp contrast from the way my mother looks out the window.

He takes the time to walk with me, head still high, chocolate brown hair streaked with grey and hazel eyes only slightly wrinkled. He's tall but never stately; he never seems so old as to make that impression, and is always in-between. My mother is not what you may describe as small but near him, she, and everyone else actually, seem to shrink. It's funnier when you see it happen as well, watching the world blur just behind of him but still clear enough to appreciate

Maybe he saw the world that way as well, no words over paper ever as interesting at the movements of humans around us. He told me once that it was a miracle we were here. I looked at him (more like looked up really) and I felt the same thing - only he always saw it truly as a miracle.

And finally one day, he had to say something about what I wrote. I was a middle schooler, intent on high school entrance exams, so my writing was momentarily forgotten- but its absence wasn't. I gritted my teeth every time I shoved my notebooks away, every time my pencil moved to make equations and diagrams, not words. Even Japanese homework did little to satiate my growing hunger to write something, anything. So when my father came and said that if I made it into the high school my family approved of, he would give me a very unique story idea to write, it was more than enough motivation. I forgot writing for myself, studied instead, and entered the high school with my family's cheers echoing behind me.

In front of me lay a story now and I was more than eager to get started. So it came as a surprise when my father explained that what he meant what that he would tell the story and I would simply copy it down. There was no room for my own imagination and I was furious; I wanted something for myself, not a story from someone who couldn't even critique.

Until he dictated it to me. He only said a few sentences but I have memorized them, no - inscribed them somewhere inside me so I can never forget.

_A fox realized she was all alone after the boy she loved had left her in the forest._

_So she became human and found the boy years later to punish him._

_Instead, she fell in love with him and slowly began to die._

_It was too late for her to live but the boy promised that she would always be his first bride._

I looked up and his eyes were already unfocused, his voice hushed so I knew it was the end. But it was the strangest story I had heard and yet, it was so real. Everything in the few words he had uttered was a love story original and true. I wrote them down and decided that for my own enjoyment, I would write a story.

And I did so that night, intent on making that story complete, and my own. The next day when I went to meet him, I gave him the story, elaborate and full of emotions, but he didn't bother to read it. He simply recited "Instead, she fell in love with him and slowly began to die" and I realized with a start my huge mistake.

When I was young and just as full of admiration and respect for him as I am now, I was staring intently at a picture of Dad when he was just a teenager. Multiple pictures of him in those years were around the house but I had never seen the girl with fiery golden hair before. He asked if I wanted to hear a story and even then that was quite a treat so I listened. He told me how she was his first best friend when he went to my grandmother's house the summer his mother and father were getting divorced. She was hurt badly and so he hid her away in the house, opening up about everything, his home, the girl he liked, what he wanted to do when he was older. But he couldn't hide her forever so he had to leave her behind without saying goodbye and go back to his own broken home. Years later, when he had long since forgotten about her, she came back full of bitterness and was intent on making him say sorry to her.

I was on the edge of my seat (or his lap actually) and hung onto every word, trying to see my father younger, handsome with eyes brighter than anyone else, with this girl I had never known. I was siding with her, a bit annoyed with Dad that he had so carelessly left behind someone he trusted, even loved.

So when he told me that she was actually sick and dying, I was petrified and fervently wishing for a happy ending. The way my Dad spoke about her was unlike the way he talked about anyone else; she was the most determined, stubborn, and needy girl he knew who managed to win the hearts of everyone in the house. I wanted her to survive so I blurted out to my mother passing by, "What happens to Makoto?"

She stared at me and looked at my father, her eyes wide and questioning and he took a deep breath before laughing. He explained that she did live in the end, that he even was able to live with her until she moved away back to her family's place. Maybe if I had been older or not so emotionally attached to the tale, I would have seen that the ending was a lie and the girl didn't really survive.

And so now, older and much more mature, I saw that he had finally told me the real story and wanted to see if I could accept it as my own without playing around with it. There are stories in this world that must go without question; they are as sacred as the religious thoughts of any person who holds steadfast to them without trying to change the views of others.

I read his short summary over again and thought about what he said years before and realized that Makoto was a fox and she really did die and that…

…my father had married her?

I had never heard of anyone else concerning my mother; she and my father were well acquainted with each other when they started dating, often telling me that it was common knowledge to the people who knew them that Dad and her were going to marry. So I figured that the odd expression on her face when I asked her if Makoto died was just one of puzzlement; she might not have known Dad's previous attachment.

However, my father is not one to hide; he, as I reflect on it, is somewhat of a hero who overachieves without even trying to. He has a way of trying to help others without involving too much of himself. But in the end, he becomes so wrapped up in it that he is an inseparable part of the whole story.

In the end, I realized that the story had a dead-end, and one that I would never break the wall of. So the only thing left was for me to ask about her. I wanted to know if they had really married and why; my father was someone who, though attached easily, would be reluctant to make such a big commitment, especially at that age.

But what he told me was that simply, you do things for the people who need love. Makoto perhaps changed him in ways greater than any other; I learned later about stories of the girl with the snow bunny and the girl in the golden fields and the girl who fell off a tree. All true and utterly common; everyone has memories and everyone needs love so why bond yourself in a way recognized by all?

"Because the first is first," he told me with a smile echoing the cheeriness of a girl only my father probably knew. He has gradually come to telling me the story more often, adding details such as that pork buns were her favorite and romance manga made her dream and made him smile. He told me that she had the most startling view on pets and I began to understand further why my father was reluctant to have animals in the house. He told me she loved acting older than she really was, constantly finding ways to grow up and I began to realize all those times my father laughed whole-heartedly as I struggled to prove myself in an argument.

The first was first and always will be. Perhaps memories can die but emotions never will and no matter what the end, it matters that he was with her in the way she asked for.

Many people continue to ask me why I must end the stories unhappily, but the fact is that it is my signature. My style to show that what I have written is not wasted. I cannot play God and edit the stories of real people who I will never understand, never feel or connect with. I have learned that the greatest love does not come from sacrifice but bravery - there are people who will stay with the cursed simply to make them happy. Who can comprehend this?

Until someone finds that in the sadness we read, there is the light of hope in the characters we will never meet again, I cannot write a happy ending. It is my duty to show that sadness is the root we cling to but not the petals we forget to turn our heads upward for.

When someone can come to me and insist that my stories are endings, not sad departures, maybe they can also tell me why my father cannot see how much love he had for a fox. Maybe when he meets her again, in a snowy town and it is him who takes her hand and does not let go, his miracle of the world will end.

And they can have a happy ending.

* * *

[from the book jacket of the paperback edition of "hearing her smile"]

"Kentaro felt the wind wrap around him and take away his breath. She was laughing silently, eyes closed, and her hand clutched his note, worn and yellowed. He closed his eyes and fell to his knees, feeling all the world fall under him."

Though they were only classmates for a year, Kentaro and Kimi never forgot each other. Years later, for a few minutes, they meet again…and realize what they needed to return to each other the day they said good-bye.

Noted around the world for his insight on human emotions and imaginative but realistic situations, Takeshi Aizawa wrote his last novel with the same elegance seen in his previous works. Presented in its finished form, complete with his notes and a preface from Yoshiro Watanuki, "hearing her smile" continues to be a classic in literature with its memorable characters and their heart-warming romance.

* * *

_fin._


End file.
